Mule (33 page)

Now Eric said, "Little fucker got a shot off. Can you believe that? This was not your average mule. Good thing you took care of him now."

I walked across to Darren's torn and bloody body. Had he really been as small as that? He'd seemed so much bigger in life. I pushed his tongue into his mouth, shut his eyes. What could he and Eric have done together if they'd ever had the chance to meet? After they'd cut me out? After they'd put me at the bottom of the pond where Darren was going now? I felt in the back of his waistband, found the heavy envelopes, tossed all three of them to Eric. "Here's the money. Asshole carried it in himself. I know there's extra in it. Give it to your brother for a tip." As though to say thanks, Eric's brother started up the Skilsaw.

I grabbed JoJo Bear out of the pocket of Darren's ruined jacket. Did JoJo have any of that blood on him? He didn't. "I'm sorry about what I've put you through," I whispered to him. When I pressed his belly, he whispered back, "I love you."

Eric set the rifle down on the workbench, then he and I left the fluorescent-lit garage. Outside, he said, "What about that other thing you owe me, James?"

"The connection?"

"The connection."

"How do I know those pictures will go away?"

"When have I not played straight with you?"

At the car, I passed him his share of the New York money out of the gym bag, bundle by bundle. He needed both hands to hold it all. Would I make it out of here alive once I gave him the phone? He would have to drop the pile of money to kill me. I knew he would not drop the pile of money.

I looked around at the day. At the beautiful day. I said to him, "Are there fish in that pond?"

He said, "All kinds. Bass, crappie, bluegill. Hungry fish. They all work for me, too."

I took a TracFone out of my pocket, set it on top of the money in his arms. I said, "Here's the connection."

Eric looked at the phone, made a face at it. Was it smaller than he'd imagined? Less complex? He said, "This really it?"

"That's really it. The only number on it. Now that you have it, I can't get it back. So don't lose it. If you lose it, you'll lose the connection forever. Don't forget about the time zones. It's only eight
A.M.
out there."

"Too early to call?"

"You can try it."

"What's your connection's name?"

"His name is Darren Rudd."

I hopped in my car. Eric started back toward the garage. He wasn't going to shoot me this time? Why not? Did he want to wait until he was certain the connection was true? That's what I would have done. I wouldn't have trusted me anymore. Not after seeing me run away. Not after knowing I wanted out. As I was driving away from there, Eric Deveny did make that call to California. A few moments after that, a TracFone began to ring in the jacket pocket of the guy he'd just killed.

I wasn't half a mile down the road when one of my phones began to vibrate. I knew which one. "You're dead," Eric said when I picked up.

"I'm not dead."

"My people are already on their way down there."

"My people are already gone."

"I'll hunt you for years. I'll enjoy it."

"Why bother? You're never going to see me again."

Then I hung up.

 

I was on the road. Was I afraid? Yes. At the same time, Eric Deveny didn't have a police force, couldn't put out an APB on me. I drove to the Tallahassee airport, rented a car, a one-way rental. It was a silver Buick Lucerne, a pretty car. I sat in it, started it, drove around the airport, turned into the short-term lot, parked the Lucerne beside my Forester, and hopped back in my car.

I left the airport on Capital Circle, turned onto Springhill Road, drove southwest, not far, and entered the Apalachicola National Forest. I turned off the paved road onto a dirt road, drove into the trees until the forest closed around me. The forest was pine, with small lakes and ponds all through it. I turned off the car, took out a phone, called Cristina.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in a room at the Governors. Where are you?"

"I'm here. I'm ready. I have the money. Book the room now. Text him tonight. Let me know what happens. Go to the hotel tomorrow at three."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be scared."

I waited until night fell. I started the car, reversed through the trees, got back on the road, drove into the city, and asked a gas station attendant how to get to a Wal-Mart. At the Wal-Mart I bought rope.

"Gonna tie someone up?" the checkout girl asked me when she took my money.

"Maybe," I said.

"That sounds pretty fun," she said, gave me that ancient look.

I put the rope in my jacket pocket, walked out to my car, drove back to the forest, hid in the trees. JoJo Bear was with me. When I pressed his belly, he said, "I love you." I slowly sawed the rope to the length I needed with the car key against my thigh. It took awhile. And passed the time. When the rope was cut, I threw the long remainder out the window onto the forest floor. I tried to sleep in the car, but couldn't. I thought about Kate and the children all night.

The dawn broke. Small brown birds flitted about in the woods. I did not know what kind of birds they were. The pine forest around me looked like a gray mist with the canopy green and dark above it. The tops of the trees swayed in the wind. I smoked cigarettes.

At noon, Cristina called. She said, "He said okay."

"Thank fucking God."

"I can't do it."

"You can do it."

After I hung up with her, I took a slip of paper out of my wallet. There was a phone number written on it; I called the number. When the receptionist answered the phone, I told her to make a note on my reservation that a friend would be arriving before me. I wanted my friend to be let into the room.

"Thank you, sir," the receptionist said.

At three, Cristina called again. She said, "The guy here wants to talk to you."

I talked to him; he was also a receptionist. He wanted information from me. I took another slip of paper out of my wallet, read him the information that was written on it. When I'd finished, he told me, "Have a nice trip. We'll see you when you get here."

I started the car, sped into the city. Cristina was standing on the corner outside the hotel, wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses. Her hair was tucked up inside the hat. I powered down the passenger-side window; she handed me a keycard. She said, "You look exhausted."

"I am exhausted."

"I'm so fucking scared."

"Don't be scared."

I drove back to the woods. Evening settled upon the land. I thought of my family.

Then it was night. A text message came in on one of my phones. It read, "He's here."

I started the car, sped into the city. Then I was downtown. I pulled into the parking garage off College Avenue. I left the gym bag on the floor of the passenger seat. I locked the car because there was $62,000 in the gym bag. Then I ran the three blocks over to the high-rise Capital Hotel.

I entered the lobby in a small crowd of people, businesspeople, and stepped into an elevator with them. I rode up to the seventh floor, stepped out, walked down the hall. At the door to the room, I put my car keys in my mouth, wound the rope around my hands. In my jacket pocket was the keycard. I took it out, slid it in the slot. The light flashed green, the door unlocked. I could enter the room if I wanted.

I did want to enter the room, just like I'd wanted to enter all of them. I had to enter the room; the end of it was in there.

I slowly turned the handle, went in. The lamp on the dresser was lit. The people on the bed were lit in the light of it. The two people on the bed were naked. The two people on the bed were Cristina Freeman and Eric Deveny.

I spit my car keys on the floor, was on him in five running steps. He didn't have a chance to see who I was before I had the rope around his neck. I pulled it so tight it began to cut into my hands. What Cristina was doing, I didn't care.

Cristina had once told my wife and me that if there was ever anything she could do for us, all we had to do was ask. So I'd asked. Asked her to come to a restaurant where I'd be having lunch with a man.

"Who's the man?"

"Someone I'm afraid of."

She'd been sitting alone in the restaurant when we'd walked in. At the end of our meal, she'd come to our table, asked him if he'd been in a movie, tousled her hair, gave him her number, and later that night she'd let him into her suite at the Governors Inn. She'd had sex with him. While he'd been in the bathroom afterward, she'd opened his wallet. Part of why she'd done those things was because she cared about my wife and children. The other part was because I'd paid her.

Two days later, she'd been sitting with me in my car at Siesta Beach. She'd opened her purse, pulled out a slip of paper: a sheet from a Governors Inn notepad. On it was written a credit card number, an expiration date, the security code from the back of the card. Below that was a driver's license number. All of it belonged to Eric Deveny.

"You think you have to do this?"

"I'll give him every last chance."

"I don't want to have to see it."

"Just get me in the room."

And now, in the room, she was dressing as fast as she could, picking up the car keys. She was walking down the hall, leaving the hotel, running in her high heels down the street. She was looking for my car in the parking garage, finding it, getting in. She was opening the gym bag, staring at her money. And now she was driving away.

For part of the time she was doing those things, Eric Deveny was dying. And the rest of the time she was doing those things, Eric Deveny was dead.

What a beautiful body Eric Deveny had on the floor of that room. Except for his bleeding neck. I had pulled the rope so tight. I had fucking hated him.

The room was like any other hotel room in the world. But now it was the one where Eric Deveny had died. As I recovered my breath on the edge of the bed, I took JoJo Bear out of the pocket of my jacket. When I pressed his belly, JoJo Bear said, "I love you."

My hands had bled onto the rope. So I could not leave the rope behind. So I took the bag out of the garbage can and put the rope in that. Then I took off my driving clothes for the last time, put them in the bag as well. I tied the bag shut, dressed in Eric Deveny's white clothes. They would think I was him on the video as I left. They would not think to look for me; they'd only see him. A waitress had once said to us, "You two look like brothers." Our hearts had been similar in many ways. But now our hearts were also different. Mine was the one still beating.

I took a towel from the bathroom, wiped the door handles clean, put the keycard in my pocket with his wallet and phone. I rode the elevator down to his Mercedes, got in it, and drove through town in the night. The phone and keycard I wiped on my shirt and threw out the window. The wallet I wiped and slid under the seat. I pulled into the McDonald's by the Governor's Square Mall, dumped the bag I'd brought with me in a garbage can in the lot. Then I opened the Mercedes' trunk, looked at the assault rifle inside.

I drove to Eric Deveny's house, lifted out the rifle, walked to the side door. I didn't care if the door was locked or not because I also had his keys.

I entered the dark kitchen, went down the dark hall. I stepped into the den, pointed the rifle at the two men on the couch, who were playing a video game.

I could not hear the shooting in the video game. They stopped playing when they saw me. I pulled the trigger. The rifle did not fire because the safety was on. The two men and I looked at one another. I dropped the rifle and snatched up the handgun from the coffee table. Then I shot them both with it. I wiped the guns clean with a cloth from the kitchen. I wiped the doorknobs clean.

I drove to the airport, parked in the long-term lot, wiped the Mercedes, left the keys and cloth on the seat, and walked through the lots to my rental car. Then I did what I'd always done. I got back on the road.

All there was now was the road. My life was ruined and my life might always be ruined and maybe always had been ruined. And I did not want to go to prison and I did not want to lose my family; I did not care if I went to prison and I did not care if I lost my family. And I did not care if I lived and I did not care if I died; I did not care if I did not live and I did not care if I did not die. But there was the road. I got myself on the road and the stripes of the roadway flashed in the headlights. And I felt hunted and I did not feel hunted. And there was the money. And I was a rich man and I was a poor man and I was a good man and I was a bad man; I was a not rich man and I was a not poor man and I was a not good man and I was a not bad man. And there was the recession and there was not the recession and there was the fear from the recession and there was not the fear from the recession. And there was America and there was not America and there was me and there was not me.

But there was the road. And I was on the road.

First, thanks to my wife, Jessyka Lee, partner in crime, who helped me write this book. To my banditos, Gwendolyn and Rohan, we love you so much. To Granny, Nana, Sis, Jerry, Bud, Catherine, and both our families. Good times!

Thanks to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and the Japan–United States Friendship Commission/NEA Creative Artists Exchange for the generous fellowships.

My editor, Jenna Johnson, gave me line-by-line Maxwell Perkins–caliber direction. Thanks for rolling the dice on me. This book would not exist without you. Thanks to Johnathan Wilber for the fine insights, Larry Cooper for catching everything else, and everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Thanks to Liz Darhansoff and Michele Mortimer at the agency, for pushing me hard.

To our friends in Austin—#1 JWB, Meredith, KK, Amelia, Nate & Matt, Lindz, Lisa, & Mr. Moustache. In our beloved NorCal: Guthrie, thanks for the sense of humor. BW, "drive fast 'n' swerve a lot." Joel Dunsany "The Cosmic Man," Penn, Cathy & Jack, the Dunsmuir Writers, Kathryn, Paul, Brian, Frank & Kazumi, the Coopers, Robb, Charlie, everyone at the
Mount Shasta Herald,
Steve & Marcella, Skye, Jeff, Susan. Lance, thanks for the cabin. Helen, thanks for finding it for us. In Sac: R, TJ, Mayah & Shar. In Tally, the inimitable TS, thanks for the opportunity. Bob Shacochis, whose voodoo made this book possible. Southwest Florida: Tierney & Alex, Tim, Josh, the Infantis. Breanna, who gave me a line from her poem "Swish," Amanda, Whitney, Chris & Stella. Mumbai: Uncle Cipri & family. Patnem: Sarika, who took good care of Sissy and Bubby while their parents wrote. Joe Pedo in NYC, the Elliotts of Brattleboro, VT, the extended Martins, & Stewart Cummings of Calgary, AB.